


Tell Me (How Do You Feel?)

by ladyhoneydarlinglove



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Tags May Be Added, Character Study, Emotional Study, M/M, Minor Violence, Pre-Canon, Pre-Game(s), Pre-Relationship, Reckless Genji, Slow Burn, bitter genji, but not before Genji suffers, editing may also be done along the way, things start out rocky and then get better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-09-27 05:25:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9975557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyhoneydarlinglove/pseuds/ladyhoneydarlinglove
Summary: Blackwatch is a sea of masks. Genji can't remove his, but he's determined to break through McCree's, one piece at a time.





	1. Foolish

**Author's Note:**

> Everything is Tanya's fault, always and forever.
> 
> Title from _Talk_ by Coldplay.

Barely a month into his reluctant service with Overwatch, Genji discerns that every single agent in its Blackwatch arm wear a mask. Not physical ones, like the visor that now hides his scarred face, but carefully cultivated expressions, meant to fool those around them. Each unique to its wearers—some stoic, some arrogant, some meek—but all fake. Personas crafted by agents who must hide everything true about themselves, who cannot afford to let their weaknesses show. Genji knows, because he used to be the same.

His mask marked him a careful party boy, a persona expertly crafted to hide his awareness of everything around him, everything that was expected of him, everything the Shimada clan did. It served him, perhaps all too well; he wore it for years, until no one in the clan could discern what lay beneath it. In what ought to have been his last moments, Hanzo accused him of arrogant complacency, having squandered all the opportunities their father gave them, never bothering to learn what needed to be done. “You don’t even bear the dragons correctly,” he spat, venom dripping from every word. “You have become a waste of human being.”

The truth of it was not so simple. The truth was Genji knew everything and anything there was to know about the Shimada empire—he simply never cared much for any of it. Not the way his family wanted. Hanzo, having long ago abandoned his true nature to mold himself into what he thought was the perfect heir their father desired, misunderstood him. For most of his life, Genji had watched his brother with varying mixtures of admiration, respect and pity. He could not be ignorant of how Hanzo saw him, but to hear it aloud was to unleash the maw of the dragon, its sharp teeth closing around Genji’s heart, until he bleed pain and anguish.

In that moment, his mask cracked, and all Genji had so very carefully crafted went slipping through his fingers. In that moment, he was exposed. His anger took control, and he charged. In that moment, he became the fool he thought he only pretended to be.

It is a mistake he does not intend to repeat.

* * *

The art of crafting a mask requires skill and discipline, years of careful tweaking and adjusting, until it fits so well no one can tell the difference. Strike-Commander Morrison doesn’t bother with one; his approach too blunt, his methods too straightforward to bother trying. Captain Amari’s is ill-fitting; she creates stoicism when necessary, but it always yields to her innate kindness. Commander Reyes’ fits so well Genji cannot discern anything about him, other than his mild favoritism of Agent McCree.

Agent McCree wears a mask of fake smiles and an easy-going attitude. His mouth will often be quirked in a small half grin; it broadens when he laughs, which he does easily. His southern twang drips off of every word he speaks, thicker the more innocuous he needs to be. At first glance, Genji might peg him as doofy. He plays the part of a fool, and he does it well. Genji almost— _almost_ —doesn’t catch on.

But the mask of the fool is common, and once he has seen through it, Genji remains singularly unimpressed with McCree’s performance. It’s sloppy, with bits and pieces of the real McCree slipping through every now and again. He can’t hide the shimmer of pride in his eyes when Captain Amari or Commander Reyes praise him. His guard goes down around Dr. Ziegler. He’s interested about Genji—or perhaps _in_ Genji—and it shows in his actions. He follows Genji, attempts to make contact where he can. He asks questions, show genuine interest in what Genji has to say. He tries to know Genji better, for seemingly no other reason than because he wants to.

It is _infuriating_.

“You’re sloppy,” Genji accuses him on one particularly vindictive day.

McCree raises an eyebrow, glancing out across the shooting range where Genji found him. The targets all bear perfectly marked bullet holes, which only serves to aggravate Genji further. “Beg pardon?” he asks.

“Not that,” Genji snaps, gesturing towards McCree. “ _You_. You’re sloppy.”

The eyebrow arches higher. McCree glances down briefly at his front, at the neat cut of his Blackwatch uniform, then back up. “I’m thinkin’ you might have to be a little more specific there, slick,” he says. The hint of amusement in his voice has Genji’s hands balling into fists.

“ _You_ ,” Genji accuses again. A flash of green, and the butt of his katana’s handle presses against McCree’s windpipe. McCree doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even give Genji the courtesy of looking at him like he’s a threat, and Genji’s blood goes to boiling in his veins. “Your performance. You act the part of the Southern fool to trick those around you, lure them into a false sense of security. But you’re _sloppy_.” He presses the katana harder against McCree’s throat, and still McCree doesn’t move. “You slip up. You let bits of yourself through. Pride. Smiles. Laughter.”

He intends for the accusation to hurt, for McCree’s mask to slip in favor of anger and an argument that will inevitably lead to a fight. To his dismay, McCree chuckles. It’s heavy and breathy and cuts off at a strange place; a real chuckle, not his feigned easy laugh. “You say that like I ain’t doin’ it on purpose.”

His answer leaves Genji seething. If his knuckles still bore skin, their grip around his katana would be white. “What do you mean?” he demands, pressing that much harder against McCree’s throat.

“Listen, partner,” McCree says. His metal hand wraps around the hilt of Genji’s katana and tugs it away with unexpected force. Genji almost struggles not to be thrown off balance; it unnerves him, how evenly matched McCree’s strength can be. “I know what kind of mask you’re talking ‘bout. They’re all over the place—here, the Deadlocks, the Shimada Clan, everywhere. I been ‘round them all my life. And they work real great if you wanna hide everything about yourself, sure.” He steps forward, crowding into Genji’s space; it takes far too much effort for Genji not to step away. “But the problem with a mask like that is eventually, you end up hiding from yourself too. The person disappears, and that mask is all they got left. And I ain’t aimin’ to end up like that.”

Beneath his visor, Genji stares. His blood rages but he can’t seem to make himself move, stuck in place by McCree’s words. “I don’t understand what you mean,” he forces out, trying badly for angry, ending up with annoyed confusion. It makes Genji want to punch McCree, but before he can move, McCree’s raises a hand, tapping two fingers against the temple of Genji’s visor.

“I think you know exactly what I mean, Shimada-san.”

His blood ignites, and Genji roars, unsheathing his blade and pressing it against McCree’s throat in one fluid motion. A bead of red dribbles down McCree’s throat, but Genji is afforded only a moment of bitter satisfaction before a click sounds next to his ear, thunderous in the silence between them.

Peacekeeper’s barrel lays directly between the gaps of armor that cover Genji’s head and neck, right where they cannot protect him from a bullet. Genji growls, low and guttural, but doesn’t move. Defeat crawls up from the base of him spine, harsh and cold. They won’t kill each other, but they could, easily. And it pains Genji to know he would lose. That this close, McCree’s trigger finger is faster than his sword arm.

With the frustrated yell, Genji withdraws, slamming his katana back into its sheath in the same breath that McCree holsters Peacekeeper. “You truly are a fool,” Genji spits.

McCree smiles. It’s wide and sharp, controlled anger simmering below the surface. A wolf weighing its prey. “Am I?” he challenges. “Or are you just angry that you don’t know me as well as you thought?”

Genji’s mask, shattered pieces now that just barely hold together, cracks. His anger burns the shards away, leaving naught but ash in its wake.

He makes the same mistake.


	2. Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of this chapter is kind of rework of one of my other pieces _You Claw, You Fight, You Lose_ so if it seems familiar, that's why. Consider this the more refined version, I guess.

The thing is, in another lifetime, Genji might have actually liked McCree.

He doubts they would have been good friends—McCree’s strong personality clashes too much with his own—but there’s a certain charm that clings to McCree which Genji can appreciate. A sort of rugged aesthetic, coupled with his easy smiles and a generally amiable attitude. He plays the part of a man who enjoys having fun, who likes a game, and maybe a little bit of a chase. Before, Genji would have been delighted to indulge him.

Now though, grappling with the realities of his broken body, Genji’s rage and frustration are always ready to bubble over, and McCree seems particularly adept at pushing exactly the right buttons to make him lash out. Whatever McCree’s charms might be are undone by his unwillingness to yield in the face of Genji’s wrath, and instead, everything about McCree only serves to make Genji furious.

“He is deliberately provocative,” Genji complains to Dr. Ziegler during a routine check-up.

“And you aren’t?” Dr. Ziegler shoots back without missing a beat.

Genji bristles. He considers lashing out, but doubts it would be to his benefit; he has never seen Dr. Zigler reach a level of anger that goes beyond annoyed exasperation, and she wields disappointment better than Genji wields his blade. “You cannot compare us,” Genji snaps instead. “My predicament—”

“I am well aware of your predicament,” Dr. Ziegler responds calmly. “I am also aware that it is the source of much anger and frustration, and that your temper is volatile because of it. I am not suggesting it is unwarranted,” she adds sternly as Genji opens his mouth to argue, “but it does make you particularly reactive.”

Genji grits his teeth. “Are you saying it’s my fault?”

Dr. Ziegler pauses, pursing her lips. “I’m suggesting you may want to consider redirecting your energy into something a bit more productive,” she says after a moment. “Like your recovery.”

“Is this not supposed to be my recovery?” Genji asks. “The body of an automaton?”

“Your recovery encompasses more than just the physical,” Dr. Ziegler answers. “You would do well to focus on your mental health as well.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” Genji snaps.

“I wouldn’t know. I’m a surgeon, not a therapist,” Dr. Ziegler quips. “But I’d be more than happy to set up another evaluation for you, since you seem to have missed so many of the others I scheduled.” She smiles; it’s tired and strained around the edges. Guilt boils low in the pit of Genji’s belly.

“I do not need another evaluation,” he protests, though his words lack heat.

“Well then I’m afraid I don’t have much else to offer,” Dr. Ziegler says. “Perhaps you ought to just stay away from McCree altogether.”

Genji should. It would be for the best.

* * *

But he can’t.

He tries, but Genji returns to McCree like a moth drawn to flame. In a world now shattered and twisted so much Genji barely recognizes it anymore—barely recognizes  _himself_ —he seeks out the few constants upon which he can rely. He has purpose so long as he is a necessary asset in Overwatch’s takedown of the Shimadas. Dr. Ziegler will always patch him up no matter his injuries. And Jesse McCree rises to Genji’s challenge but never to his bait. Deprived of comfort, these small consistencies are all Genji has left.

So he returns, again and again. He pushes and pokes and prods at McCree. When he cannot unleash himself fighting in the field, Genji makes McCree the primary target of his sorrow, his bitterness, his rage. McCree bears the brunt of Genji’s outbursts, and does so admirably well. He allows Genji’s anger to wash over him like waves on the shore, offering little in exchange but sharp retorts and that signature easy smile.

Genji despises it, just as much as he relies on it for comfort. Few have been the people left unaffected by Shimada Genji’s presence, and to think that an insufferable fake cowboy might be one of them grates on Genji’s nerves in a way that leaves him ceaselessly agitated. He refuses to believe McCree lacks a tipping point, that there isn’t someway to wipe that easy smile off his ruggedly handsome face.

So he pushes, and pushes, and pushes.

* * *

It happens, without warning, on a sunny afternoon in April.

Two days prior, Overwatch managed to apprehend a high-ranking member of the Shimada Clan. One of his uncle’s, who screamed in rage against Genji as they loaded him into a transport. _Traitor. Filth. Monster._

The words cut deep, rocketing Genji’s already volatile temper to new highs. By now, most other agents know to avoid Genji in the aftermath of a mission, so he has no immediate targets. In his rage, he searches for one of his few constant comforts. He opts for McCree, because for all the antagonism Genji deigns to throw at him, the Blackwatch agent remains mostly unperturbed by Genji’s continued presence. Genji once asked him why, to which McCree blithely replied, “‘Cause I like you, when you’re not being a complete jackass.”

(Genji does not like McCree. He repeats this to himself frequently, to ensure he doesn’t forget.)

It’s just warm enough outside for McCree to take a few laps around one of the outdoor obstacle courses. When McCree finishes, Genji begins his barrage of criticisms. They’re meaningless—small notes about his forms and times that don’t truly matter—but Genji finds ways to blow everything out of proportion, to make it seem like McCree’s very existence is an affront to all things decent in the world. When McCree takes his comments in stride—as he always does—Genji digs deeper, looking to hurt, the way he hurts.

_Traitor. Filth. Monster._

“There a particular reason you’re all riled up today, or do you just hate me that much?” McCree eventually asks, his drawl thick and slow. He does this when vaguely annoyed; the tiny victory brings Genji some bitter satisfaction.

“I would not expect you to understand,” Genji snaps.

“Yeah, you say that a lot.” McCree draws a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Which is funny, ‘cause we actually got a lot in common. Which you’d know if you ever bothered to stop and listen for two seconds.”

Genji bristles, teeth bared in a hidden snarl behind his visor. “Ridiculous,” he spits, hurling as much venom as he can into every word. “What could we possibly have in common? Have you ever been injured so badly your entire body had to be replaced? Have you ever been betrayed by those closest to you? Left for dead by family only to be scooped up in pity, because you were deemed useful?”

_Traitor. Filth. Monster._

McCree—constant, predictable, easy going McCree—pauses on Genji’s last words. The lighter he holds in his hands lingers just beneath the cigarette in his mouth, and his brow furrows, every so slightly. After a moment, he lights the cigarette. He takes a long drag, blowing out smoke in a steady stream, but for once, he says nothing to counter Genji’s barb.

Victory surges up Genji’s spine, crackling along his artificial nerves as he seizes upon the opportunity because finally— _finally_ —here is something to crack McCree’s insufferable mask.

“You are a fool,” Genji hisses, “if you think you know betrayal as I do.”

_Traitor. Filth. Monster._

A muscle twitches in McCree’s jaw.

“What family have you ever had, that you could possibly know?” Genji taunts. McCree’s tipping point lies within reach now, and vindictive rage surges through Genji, fueling him. “Poor little cowboy, did you leave mother and father to try and to play big shot with Deadlock? Thought you could be a criminal and got scared?” A noise escapes him, a hollow mimic of laughter. “Blackwatch must have been such a comfort, taking in the juvenile with the sob—”

Something heavy collides brutally with his faceplate, shattering his visor.

Genji’s vision feed flickers violently, leaving him with only fragmented images of his surroundings, just enough to realize McCree’s metal fist has connected his face. He reels backwards as warnings begin to flash over the damaged screen. Panic and fear seize in Genji’s chest even as he screams in rage and lashes out wildly, hitting McCree wherever he can. He moves more quickly than McCree, sharp quick jabs all over his body, aiming for where he thinks McCree’s soft spots might be. They connect—he can feel McCree’s body beneath his fists, can hear McCree swearing loudly—but it isn’t enough.

For all his enhancements, for all the advantages his cybernetics afford him, for all his training and knowledge, McCree won before they even began, and all it took was a split-second punch to rend Genji vulnerable. He can’t fight if he can’t  _see._ The truth sits in the cold, empty pit of his stomach, and Genji is—for the first time since Hanzo’s dragons tore him apart— _afraid_.

McCree fights back, his blows slower than Genji’s but harder, the alloys that make up his metal arm denser than Genji’s cybernetics. They yell and scream at each other, insults tossed as easily as the blows between them. Genji lashes out viciously, but McCree presses his advantage, forcing Genji to yield.

Frustrated tears well up in his eyes as McCree manages to slam him up against a wall. He can’t see McCree’s face, but he can feel the anger rolling off him in waves. McCree’s metal hand holds Genji by the throat. Genji doubts he can truly be choked, but the threat of it weighs heavy in the air. His bitter satisfaction is rapidly replaced by something that stings his eyes and wells up in his throat, and even though he could fight back still, Genji finds he has lost the will to do so.

“Listen, you arrogant sack of shit,” McCree snarls. “You wanna have a round the clock pity party ‘cause your situation sucks, that’s fine. You wanna bitch and moan that no one understands what you’re going through, go right ahead. But if you actually pulled your head out of your ass for one goddamn minute, you’d know to never, _ever_ , tell me I don’t know what it’s like to be betrayed, you stupid fucking _asshole_.”

He lets go. Genji slumps against the wall.

“You think you’re so goddamn special ‘cause your family betrayed you?” McCree yells. “Welcome to the fucking club, jackass. I’m here ‘cause I got a brother that handed me to Overwatch on a golden fucking platter so he could hog more glory for himself. Mizrahi’s stuck in Blackwatch ‘cause her family tried to sell her to Mossad for shit she didn’t even know. Lakkham can’t fucking leave Switzerland ‘cause his fuck-off dad’s an Interpol agent that wants him arrested.” His metal fist slams into the wall next to Genji’s head, and Genji barely manages to fight down a flinch. “Half of Blackwatch ended up where they were ‘cause their families were sacks of crap that sold them out, handed them over, tried to kill ‘em, or any other goddamn kind of betrayal you can think of. So yeah, the poor little cowboy _does_ understand.”

McCree moves, placing his hand over Genji’s chestplate. Genji inhales sharply, but it only rests there, steady and strangely calm. “Now this, the whole cyborg ninja thing? Yeah, nobody in the world understands that crap, and you can be as sad and fucked up as you want over it. I ain’t gonna blame you for shit. But don’t pretend like you’re the only sorry bastard in the world whose family fucked him over.”

He pulls away sharply, the sound of his angry footsteps ringing loudly in Genji’s ears as McCree storms away. Genji remains slumped against the wall, unmoving, salty tears on his lips, a heavy lump welling up in his throat. The fear dissipates, but it leaves something even more unpleasant in its wake.

Regret, he realizes. He feels regret.


End file.
